


Heroes

by Joules Mer (joulesmer)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Dadmiral Christopher Pike, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-04-12 13:57:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19133422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joulesmer/pseuds/Joules%20Mer
Summary: Leonard was there for the moment Christopher Pike realized that Jim was captain and he was not.  It was the same moment Pike realized he wasn’t going to be captaining anything any time soon.  If ever again.





	1. Chapter 1

Leonard was there for the moment Pike realized that Jim was captain and he was not. It was the same moment Pike realized he wasn’t going to be captaining anything any time soon. If ever again.

He should have turned the goddamn display around, but he hadn’t, and Captain Pike didn’t need a medical degree to take in just how much of the 3D rendering of his spine was bathed with red to signal neurotoxic damage.

It was a front row seat as relief marred with a pinch of remembered pain around Pike’s eyes turned to realization: forty-three years old and about to be retired to a desk. From captain of the flagship one could barely fall further.

Leonard had known enough hotshots in the medical world to know exactly what Pike must have sacrificed to claw his way to the top of Starfleet’s particular heap. The residents at Atlanta General used to play “happily married bingo” with the gossip about their superiors: who was happily married, who was unhappily married, who was divorced, who was divorced more than once, who was on the path to divorce...

The hotshots, stars of their field, were rarely even on the list except for the occasional divorce. They’d never made the time to get married. Making captain at a young age then earning himself the Enterprise, the crown jewel in a generation of the ‘fleet… It was no wonder his personnel file hadn’t turned up any dependents; next of kin listed as Doctor Philip Boyce. Leonard knew Phil Boyce was happily married to a stellar cartographer and both were somewhere in the Laurentian System serving on the Lovell.

Knowing that the next stop of this particular emotional journey was likely to be an oscillation between maudlin and anger, Leonard turned off the display and leaned down to firmly say, “You’re his goddamn mentor, so you don’t get to feel sorry for yourself. Not at his expense.” It was unfair, of course, but it provoked the desired response.

The boil lanced smoothly— Pike went straight past melancholy and landed on affronted. “Excuse me?”

It was easy enough to respond in kind; Leonard has spent the last day and a half trembling with the fear that _Jim was dead_ and it was easy enough to pin that on the most readily available figure. “I know how you got him up here: that line you pulled about his father? Well congratulations, Captain, the kid just about got himself killed three times over trying to live up to that.”

“And he did just fine.”

A scowl twisted the doctor’s face. “The end doesn’t justify the means.”

“Not everyone has the luxury of categorical imperatives, _doctor_.”

“Back when spaceflight was more ballistics than electronics one of the Mercury astronauts said that, ‘You don’t raise heroes, you raise sons. And if you treat them like sons, they’ll turn out to be heroes, even if it’s just in your own eyes.’” At the expression of surprise on Pike’s face Leonard rolled his eyes, “I paid attention in history class.” Waiting a moment so his words would have more impact, he added, “You know what happens if you try to raise heroes?”

Wariness crept into Pike expression as he nodded, mutely.

Leonard confirmed it anyway: “You wind up with a goddamn body bag.”

Pike’s jaw twitched as if he was clenching it tightly, but he held his tongue.

“Look,” point made, Leonard deliberately let his tone soften, “you’re alive and I _will_ get you walking again in the next six months come Hell or high water, but Jim is going to need you, Captain. He wasn’t even supposed to be on this ship and he just saved the entire goddamn world.”

Pike chewed on that for a moment, his own loss diminished by the _Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker_ of a clusterfuck that had unfolded. Eventually, without a trace of rancor, “Where is he?”

“He’s on the bridge. I’m waiting for you to stabilize further, but then I’ll need to put you out so I can start the neural repair. I can give you three hours of relative clarity and then you’ll be out of commission for the foreseeable future.”

Three hours; barely enough time. “I need to get a message to Nogura; Charles Archer too if you can manage it.”

Leonard didn’t know what was possible at the moment, but he _was_ sure Nyota Uhura could work miracles with a comm system when needed. “I’ll make sure it’s one of the first things out.”

“Then get Jim down here before full contact with command is reestablished. I need to give him some advice.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I relieve you, sir.”

“I am relieved.” In every sense of the word, he was. Jim was a fine young man; younger than ideal for a captain, but his crew would follow him to the end of the universe and Chris loved them for it.

“Thank you, sir.”

Congratulations, Captain.” He had to say the word himself; he’d lobbied hard enough that Kirk should get to keep the title. “Your father would be proud.” _I’m proud_.

From the smile on Kirk’s face, he knew what was being said.

A cacophony of noise swelled up around them, cadets-turned-officers cheering the loudest and Jim turned slowly to take it all in with a wide smile on his face. It was a needed catharsis after the tremendous losses; there was precious little to celebrate. The applause strengthened before it died down, but all too soon Chris felt the yeoman take hold of his chair, rolling him respectfully backwards to join the procession of admirals out of the hall.

Once safely around the corner, he shooed away the young man assigned to his chair and set it in automatic mode, taking himself down the corridor and around to the main entrance of the hall where the larger crowd was being disgorged. Kirk stilled when he caught sight of him, abandoning his back-slapping to quickly come over to the edge of the crowd with the beginnings of a worried frown as he asked, “sir?”

Smiling in an effort to put the kid at ease, Chris said, “I’m assuming your crew are going to monopolize your time tonight,” which was a lie, because he knew for a fact that Scott had booked some bar in the Mission from eight o’clock and arranged for a lock in that included the seventeen year old navigator. “But I was wondering if perhaps I could buy you dinner?” Surprise crossed the young captain’s face, and Chris couldn’t help think that for all his lobbying he should have paid him more direct attention in the last two weeks. “Bring McCoy with you.”

That seemed to sweeten the deal even more, as Jim’s smile reasserted itself in earnest. “When?”

It was already almost five; “Six— get into some real clothes and I’ll comm you the address. It’s near campus.” He turned the chair in a quick about face and Jim was swallowed up by the crowd.

 

**********

Six-o-two and Jim frowned at his comm, then at the townhouse in front of them. “This is the address he sent…” A moment of staring accusingly at the building, as if it might somehow change in front of him, “But I thought it would be a restaurant. He said, ‘buy’, Bones. _Buy_ us dinner.”

“Do you want to call Pike to check?” Jim checked the address again, squirmed, and Leonard rolled his eyes. “If you’re not going to call him then we have to ring the bell.”

The argument was ended by the front door opening and Christopher Pike looking down at them with the hint of an amused smile, “Gentlemen. Why don’t you come in.”

The door opened wider as they drew near and a rich aroma of steak, garlic, truffles and potatoes wafted out.

Jim’s stomach rumbled in expectation and he cast a glance sideways as he crossed the threshold to ask, “Did you cook?”

“Hell, no. I can cook, but not from this chair. I’ve ordered from Nouma.” Chris was satisfied to see McCoy’s eyebrow just about mate with his hairline, because _Nouma_ , and he smirked. “Figured we’d earned a proper meal after two weeks of rations while we were under tow.”

The doctor’s muttered, “Amen to that,” had the fervor of a true believer.

As they made their way through to the kitchen Chris ignored how the younger men were covertly glancing through open doorways and at the framed photographs on the wall. Interactions with cadets were always in his office at the academy, never even a vidcall from his desk at home. In retrospect, it must have left him as a fairly enigmatic figure. His circle of guests didn’t tend to extend much beyond Phil and Rachel Boyce or Charles Archer. Sometimes One or his old command crew from the Aldrin, when they were in town.

Three places were set at one end of a large dining table, the chair that would normally sit at the head carefully removed. “Leonard, could you finish dishing up in the kitchen?” When the doctor nodded and headed in the right direction, he set his chair rolling again. “Jim, help a cripple with the wine rack— it’s taller than me right now.”

The young captain made a choked noise, as if he wasn’t sure he could laugh or not. 

Yes, he’d definitely need to spend more time with Jim before the kid shipped out. Chris had commed him four times since being released to recuperate at home; stolen pep talks in between debriefings that may as well have been interrogations. But they hadn’t seen each other in person since Chris had surfaced from a round of neural grafting surgery to find Jim’s tall frame folded into one of the visitor’s chairs at Starfleet Medical. At the time he’d been too doped up on painkillers to manage much of a real conversation, but it had been good to see him nonetheless.

Jim reached up to grab the indicated bottle of red, then opened it to breathe under Chris’ supervision. McCoy returned carrying three plates at once in a manner that suggested he’d worked on the side as a server when he was younger. The aroma was amazing and Chris patted himself on the back for splurging an inordinate number of credits on the meal— the earnest appreciation on Jim’s face as a plate was set in front of him would be enough, but after suffering through the food at ‘fleet medical Chris was ready for a treat as well.

McCoy settled himself at the table while Jim reached across to pour the wine.

“To the Enterprise,” Chris took a moment to let that sink in before adding, “and to her captain and crew.” Jim’s cheeks pinked, but he gamely clinked his glass against the others.

They applied themselves to the food in silence for a few minutes, because _ohmygoodlord_ it was delicious. Chris glanced up to find McCoy making a face that looked disturbingly like he might be having an orgasm. It was almost enough to put him off the meal… almost, but not quite. 

Eventually, they were far enough into the food that everyone relaxed and slowed down, more ready to chat and eat at the same time. Chris waved his knife towards Jim and McCoy’s rapidly emptying plates, “I guess I know how to lure you back to Earth every now and then.” Jim grinned unapologetically, but didn’t stop chewing to reply. It was weirdly impressive, how quickly the kid could put food away. He shook his head, fondly, remembering the fluke of an encounter in Riverside. “You told me three years to complete the academy; turns out you were even more of an overachiever than I’d imagined.”

Jim swallowed, that at least merited a reply, “I’m full of surprises.”

“Mmmm,” Chris just cocked his head to one side, “it was hard to see over those,” he wagged a finger near his nose, “napkins hanging out of your nostrils. Got your ass handed to you.”

McCoy snorted into his wine and Jim cast him a sideways glance before replying, “No, I didn’t.”

Chris just raised an eyebrow, “Oh?”

“That’s not what happened.”

“It was an epic beating.”

Jim was smiling now, even as he protested, “No it wasn’t.” 

“Napkins.” Chris reasserted, with exaggerated hand motions, “Nose.”

Jim chuckled, softly, cutting himself another bite of steak as he murmured, “Yeah, that was a good fight.”

Chris caught McCoy stilling, one eyebrow raising in an emotion he couldn’t quite decipher in the other man. The fondness in Jim’s voice gave Chris pause as well. _A good fight_. That was the kid’s problem right there. “From time to time I can make a good case… and you earned it, son.” He wasn’t sure if he was referring to Jim’s entrance into Starfleet, his appointment to command track, or his assignment to the Enterprise. Heaven knew it hadn’t been the easiest of jobs to convince the senior admiralty of any of them.

Jim’s readiness to fight was worrying; his track record of catharsis through bleeding knuckles and black eyes. There had been a few bar fights, Chris knew, while he was a cadet. Mostly kept off the record, probably thanks to McCoy treating him at home rather than risking a trip to the academy clinic. Chris had quietly tracked down a few witnesses at the time; just enough to confirm that Jim didn’t seem to actually be the one picking fights; although if he found himself in a rough bar around the time of his birthday there was still some agency in that.

Chris had seen it before, when a victory was won against a backdrop of tragedy: elation and giddy relief could be misconstrued and lead to a grief-fuelled fistfight. The lock-in was a spectacularly good idea on Scott’s part: just about everyone in San Francisco knew someone in Starfleet. The loss of multiple ships, and nearly an entire graduating class from the academy, meant a lot of people were hurting. Even Jim and his crew, with so much to celebrate, were running on grief-tainted elation at the damn crazy heroics they’d pulled off.

His maudlin turn of thought was broken by McCoy scraping his fork across his plate and sitting back with an exaggerated groan. “Damn, sir, you want us to bring the Enterprise in for inspection any time you just remind us of this meal.”

Chris laughed. “I’ll bear that in mind. Conversation shifted to lighter topics, although Jim kept glancing at him like he was expecting it to shift to shop talk or a lecture and any moment, and McCoy was definitely mentally assessing his neural function every time Chris reached across the table for his wine glass. Nonetheless, it was pleasant.

Warning tingles low in his back that signalled impending sciatica had started in earnest by the time they were digging into dessert, but Chris ignored it in favor of laughing at a story McCoy was telling involving a Gorn and octuplets. Eventually, though, his spine was insisting that he be horizontal sooner rather than later; something McCoy seemed to sense as he polished off his wine and said, “I hate to eat and run, but they’ll be waiting for us, Jim. We need to get going.” Chris was gratified to see both men looked genuinely regretful at having to leave.

As they were heading out the front door, McCoy leading, Chris rolled alongside Jim and softly said, “Jim: keep your knuckles clean tonight.”

The kid paused, startled, as if he hadn’t realized the impulse might be brewing until Chris mentioned it. A quick glance at McCoy and he licked his lips, then softly replied, “Yeah. Yeah, I will.”

“Good.” More loudly, for McCoy’s ears as well, he gave Jim a little bunt out the door with his chair and called, “Have fun, boys. Don’t get busted giving alcohol to that navigator: he’s seventeen.”

McCoy laughed; threw back over his shoulder, “He’s Russian!”


	3. Chapter 3

The late afternoon sunshine slanted into the front room; catching the little motes of pollen not yet removed by the environmental filters. The warm glow in the room was at odds with the solemn demeanor of the two men seated across from each other, an open med kit on the coffee table between them.

The pleasantries were over, and after a minute sitting in silence: “I was so angry with you.” It was a statement and a question: _did you know that?_

The words had been said lightly, without a trace of venom in Chris’ tone, but Leonard froze nonetheless. He licked his upper lip, swallowing reflexively before replying with naked honesty, “I’d expect nothing less.”

“In retrospect, I think you saw I needed something to focus on.”

Leonard hissed a breath through his teeth, then admitted, “It was selfish of me.”

“Doesn’t mean you weren’t right.”

“Jim needed you.”

“That too.” Chris sat back in his wheelchair, wishing it was the sofa instead. He contemplated McCoy for a moment, taking in the determined set of the younger man’s jaw. “They’re considering the Enterprise for the five year mission. They’ll give you a few short missions first, but it’s really a shakedown cruise. If you do well enough on that, he’ll get deep space.”

“Jesus.” The utterance was involuntary, because _holyfuckingshit_ the thought of deep space made something clench alarmingly in Leonard’s bowels.

“You’ll be fine, McCoy.” They were in Chris’ living room on the pretence of a check up, but Leonard had already officially handed care over to an SF-based physician and got daily updates sent to his padd anyway. Enterprise’s launch date had been announced that morning, so when Chris opened the front door at 1600 he’d waved McCoy into his living room while rolling into the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of bourbon. Sensing that the younger man was winding himself up to protest about aviophobia and all the ways one could die in a vacuum, topics he’d been a ceaseless font of as a cadet, Chris cut in: “It’s your turn to be strong for him.”

McCoy’s eyes narrowed and he hissed, “I was strong for Jim when I smuggled him onto the goddamn ship.”

“Good for you.” The sour parody of levity in the reply made McCoy’s eyebrows draw even further together. When Chris continued, there was venom in his tone: “And I was strong for him when I’d been tortured, when everything I’d worked for was in tatters, my colleagues were dead, and it was unclear if I’d ever walk again, so don’t start that particular pissing contest.” He blinked, having surprised even himself; cheeks flushing slightly, he sat back heavily in the wheelchair, unsure when he’d slid forwards. Voice suddenly hoarse, he said, “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”

Leonard just shrugged, “You needed to say it.”

Chris snorted, anger deflating like a leaky balloon, “You seem to have a preternatural sense for that.”

“Doctor, remember?” Leonard’s tone was self-deprecating, but his false modesty only extended so far, “And good enough someone got it in their damn fool head that I’m ‘chief medical officer on a deep space mission’ material.”

“Don’t wind yourself up.”

“Yeah, well,” Leonard took a mulish sip of his drink, “it’s hard not to.”

“You’ll be with Jim.”

Leonard similarly deflated, “Trust you to know my weakness.”

“Admiral, remember.” Shit, he’d almost said captain. “We’re supposed to be shrewd diplomats.”

Leonard chuckled, groaned, “Christ, just wait until Jim has to negotiate his first treaty. What the hell are they thinking, putting a cadet in command of the flagship?”

“Publicity,” Chris answered bluntly. “They’re taking advantage of him, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do to stop them. Nevermind that his own ship has been Jim’s dream; I’m not going to undermine that.”

“How much do you remember?” When Chris looked confused, Leonard clarified, “After the first neural repair surgery— on the Enterprise.”

Chris remembered the intense conversation with McCoy after he’d been rescued, composing messages to Heihachiro and Charles, collaring Jim and giving him the rundown of ‘fleet politics and policies and final advice before the doctor advanced on him with a hypo. After that, everything became a fugue, snatches of near-awareness that blurred together until he woke up in Starfleet Medical almost two weeks later. Seeing the doctor watching him expectantly, Chris shrugged and admitted, “Not much at all, really. It’s kind of confused.”

Drawl lengthening, either from the alcohol or remembered stress and emotion, Leonard recounted, “He slept slumped over in a chair at your bedside. I couldn’t get him into an actual cot for three days, nevermind that he was hurting. After the hit med bay took we barely had enough osteoregenerators to manage the critical cases. He’d pull eight hours on the bridge; then five or six hours with the repair crews in engineering; then he’d play morale officer in the mess hall for a few more hours, talking with everyone who’d lost someone; then swing back by the bridge for a status report that usually stretched into another hour or two strategizing with Spock. All of that with five cracked ribs, torn ligaments in his knee, and two broken fingers healing the old fashioned way. Mostly without analgesics after the synthesizers broke down.

“You know what that fucker said when I finally confronted him and threatened to relieve him of duty for 12 hours so he could get some rest?” Leonard affected something approximating Jim’s accent, “Jeez, Bones, _you_ of all people should know stowaways don’t have assigned quarters.” Taking a quick sip of his drink, he grimaced at how quickly his glass was emptying.

A memory that Chris hadn’t appreciated he possessed surfaced, of Jim’s voice rising and falling, the name _Enterprise_ repeated frequently amid garbled facts about engines and duty shifts and days to Earth and black holes. Licking his lips, he asserted, “He talked to me, didn’t he?”

Leonard nodded, lips quirking in a near-smile. “Recording his ‘captain’s logs’— said he should keep you updated. Every night, when he finally got chased off the bridge, he’d come down to the med bay and engage the privacy screen around your bed.”

“I remember now; I hadn’t appreciated I’d heard that.”

“I wasn’t sure if you could hear or not, but told Jim you might.”

Chris remembered confusion and pain being broken by Jim’s voice. “I think it helped.”

“He fought me when I tried to get him to take the captain’s quarters. I was allocated to a double with an ensign in ops; not something we could share, and Puri’s shared a wall with a conduit that shorted out. I only convinced him by pulling rank and telling him that a captain needed to be well rested or I’d take him off duty before he collapsed.”

“He should have just taken my quarters.”

“I think he still considers it your ship. He’s a cocky sonuvabitch sometimes, but...” 

Chris tipped his glass so the ice cubes knocked together and softly replied, “I guess I’ll just have to change his mind.”


	4. Chapter 4

Two days before Enterprise was set to relaunch Chris was startled awake at 0300 to unbearable _agony_ in his lower back and legs. 

He lurched, twisting away from the white hot pain as he clawed his way across the mattress in the dark, only to vomit over the side of the bed. Gasping, gagging, he managed to call for the lights only to find his vision tunneled and grey. _The comm_. It was there, on his nightstand. There was a crash as his fumbling hand knocked a glass of water onto the floor before he managed to grip the small device and near-blindly punch at his contacts.

“Hello?” McCoy’s voice; sleep roughened, but alert.

Another wave of pain stole Chris’ breath and McCoy gave another _Hello?_ before he managed to slur out, “S’mthin’s wrong.”

“Chris?” 

Not ‘sir’ or ‘admiral’. That familiarity alone from McCoy told Chris that he must sound _awful_.

“Bones?” Jim’s voice, sleepy and confused, because _of course_ the kid was there too.

“Are you at home?” McCoy again, accompanied by a rustling that sounded like hurried dressing.

Chris gave a sob that might have been _yes_.

McCoy must have requested an emergency site-to-site beam because the next thing he knew they were there: the doctor calling the lights up to full. Jim’s voice high and jumpy, borderline frantic as he exclaimed, “What’s wrong?”

Chris gasped and retched again, and _holyfuck_ his body seemed to be simultaneously trying to vomit and pass out from the pain.

“Hold him still— don’t let him move his legs!” McCoy was hollering, even though Jim couldn’t have been more than two meters away. Everything sounded too loud and somehow too far away.

Hands clamped on his hips, pressing Chris flat on his back into the mattress as a weight settled across his thighs. _Jim_.

“This is McCoy— I need an emergency beam for patient and two responders. My comm signal.” 

The reply was too muffled for Chris to hear. Another shock of pain made him groan, and once he started he didn’t seem to be able to stop: a wailing moan filled the air and while Chris knew it must be him, he didn’t recognize his own voice.

One of Jim’s hands closed over his own, gripping tightly. “Easy, sir. We’ve got you.”

Chris blindly gripped back, trying to anchor himself through another electric jolt of pain.

“Breathe, Chris,” that was McCoy. The doctor’s face suddenly loomed in what little vision Chris had left, pinched and afraid in a way Chris hadn’t seen since rematerializing on the Enterprise after their escape from the Narada.

For a moment Chris thought he was finally passing out, but his vision greyed out only to resolve again into the transporter pad at Starfleet Medical

Hands gripped him, lifting, and with a sickening lurch Chris found himself deposited on a gurney. There was the pinch of a hypo at his neck, then McCoy practically yelling, “O.R. four— let’s go!”

The last thing Chris saw was Jim’s pale face: blue eyes wide as he followed the gurney down the hall.

**********

Chris surfaced to the familiar blankness that meant _narcotic painkillers_.

The white walls, that meant _hospital_.

And the fuzziness on his tongue that meant he’d been out for a while.

“Whut?” It was more a huff of breath than a question, but it must have been audible because Jim Kirk’s face swam into focus above him. The kid was in dire need of a shave and looked like he’d missed some sleep.

“Yeah, well, you don’t look so fresh yourself, sir.”

Oh— he’d muttered that out loud. McCoy must have really put him on the good stuff. He licked dry lips and tried again, managing to croak out, “What happened?”

“Bones said your body rejected one of the more recent grafts— that it’s rare, but sometimes happens.” Jim moved as he talked, twisting to grab a hydration pack with a flexible straw which he carefully held in place for Chris to sip.

The liquid was a balm on his throat and also seemed to clear Chris’ head, because the significance of Jim’s three day beard hit him like a thunderbolt.

The expression on his face must have been telling, because the kid gave an unabashed shrug and said, “We delayed the launch.”

“Jim—” The name came out as a gust of breath, almost a moan, because this was supposed to be his _launch_ , with all the pomp and circumstance of a new flagship and a captain’s first tour.

Jim waved a hand dismissively, “From time to time I can make a good case.” They were his own words, tossed back at him. “Bones is the best surgeon in the fleet for neural grafting. We weren’t going to leave you with anyone else.”

Momentarily tongue-tied, Chris recalled his conversation with McCoy and realized there was only one thing he could say in reply: “Thank you.” The words were heartfelt and something more vulnerable seemed to flicker across Jim’s face in response. Words seemed to get stuck in the younger man’s throat, so Chris gently asked, “Do you have a new launch date?”

“Two weeks— Bones said that was enough time to make sure his re-graft was going to hold.” Jim took a deep breath, smiling with nervous excitement. “Scotty is squeezing in a few more upgrades and I’ve given the crew liberty.”

Two weeks; not so bad then. “Any word on when I can get out of here?”

“Bones wants you to take it easy— he’s concerned you’re going to overdo it or something.” Jim raised an eyebrow and smirked, “Any idea where he’d get a _crazy_ idea like that?”

“I was _barely_ using my cane.” Chris blushed, despite himself. “No more than the physio said I could.”

“Mmmmhmmm.”

“Besides, you’re one to give me heck. I heard how you were running yourself ragged after Nero.” The comment had been light, but the kid flinched as if Chris had questioned his command decisions. Silently cursing the drugs that seemed to have loosened his tongue, but left his filter in tatters, Chris hurried to explain, “Jim— captains have a tendency to do that, myself included. I won’t tell you otherwise because sometimes it’s what the crew needs, but do listen to McCoy when he puts his foot down. He understands more than you might think.” Raising an eyebrow, he added, “Besides, he should get to use his CMO powers from time to time or he’ll get surly.”

Visibly relaxing, Jim managed a grin in reply. “He’s always surly.”

“Yeah, well, it’s because he cares.” Shifting restlessly in the bed, as if that would relieve the numbness below his chest, Chris settled again and added, “I’m glad he’s going with you.”

Jim snorted. “I’m glad someone is. He hates the very _idea_ of deep space. Sometimes I worry he’d be better off without me— happily revolutionizing medicine on Earth or parked on a space station somewhere.

“You know that’s not true. You’re good for each other.”

“Yeah?” A fond little smile, curious and unsure, curled Jim’s lip.

“Yeah.” Jim seemed to relax even more at the assertion and it emboldened Chris to continue. “When I was on the Enterprise— after.” Chris’ throat caught and he had to clear it. “I hadn’t realized right away, but I could hear you when you came and made your reports. I was pretty messed up at the time, but— it helped.” He could feel exhaustion building but made sure he got the words out, “Thank you, son.”

Jim’s smile was real, even as that spark of something vulnerable was back as he replied, “Anytime, sir.”

The drugs were pulling him under, faster than he could fight against. He just managed to mumble, “Call me Chris.”

There was an almost reverent note in Jim’s voice as he said, “Chris.” As if the kid still couldn’t quite believe he had the privilege.

His eyes had slipped closed, but Chris doggedly tried to say something more, unsure if he got the words out: “You make a good captain.”

A squeeze to his hand suggested he’d managed.


End file.
